The Departure
by verdandii
Summary: Written before "The Truth"...my attempt at writing the end of the X-files.


Title: The Departure  
Author: sparkle*  
Feedback: verdandi_happening@hotmail.com   
Rating: PG  
Category: April Challenge 1 - the end of an era.  
Spoilers: 8th and 9th seasons  
Keywords: Reyes POV, Doggett, Scully, Mulder   
Summary: The end of the X-files...I guess...  
Disclaimer: Not mine...belong to CC, FOX, and 1013.  
Author's Note: Don't expect much...I'm a terrible   
procrastinator, so I end up writing my story the day before   
the deadline of course...it was going to be better than it   
turned out, though. [Maybe someday I'll rewrite it... =) ]  
  
***  
  
The Departure  
by sparkle*  
  
  
"How do you do it?" John asked.  
  
I looked at him. He wasn't looking at me, but out the   
window, still looking at the road. He was obviously talking   
to me, though; no one else was in the car.  
  
It was Friday, we were driving home from work--or *he*   
was driving *me* home from work. My new car was in for   
a repair job on several things that had gone wrong all at   
once. Sometimes I think they give you a warranty because   
they *expect* something to break down right after you   
drive it off the lot.  
  
As is becoming habit--they've been holding my car hostage   
for a few weeks now--we stop for a drink at a small bar on   
the way.  
  
As we pull into the parking lot, I reply to his question with   
another.  
  
"Do what?"  
  
"Get up every day. I mean--if you *do* feel everyone   
else's emotions...considering the people you're around most   
of the time, it's gotta be depressing..." He trails off,   
pretending to concentrate on finding a space in the small   
parking lot. I know he's got to be fighting with himself over   
this question--why he asked, I don't know--he wants to   
know, but he doesn't know how to ask. Not only that, but   
he's admitting to my empathic abilities, which is saying   
something, especially considering him.  
  
And he's half-hoping this line of discussion will drop once we   
leave the car.  
  
He finds a space and parks quickly, turning of the engine.  
  
"John--"  
  
He looks at me as he unbuckles his seatbelt.  
  
"I do it the same way you do." I give him a reassuring   
smile as he gets out of the car, and follow him into the bar.  
  
All these past few weeks, he's been the designated driver.   
Ever since my accident...he won't let me drive if he can help   
it. I wouldn't be surprised if he'd asked the dealership to   
hold my car for a few weeks after it was ready for pickup.  
  
I ask for just a glass of water, and motion for him to go   
ahead and get whatever. He deserves a break.  
  
"I'll drive," I say.  
  
He starts to protest, but I level him with a look I've   
perfected in the months since I moved here, and he stops   
short.  
  
When we leave, the sun is long gone. So is John's over-  
protectiveness. He hands me the keys to his truck and gets   
in the passenger seat.  
  
We get to his house and I realize the one flaw in my plan--  
I have no way of getting home now. I make a mental note   
to call a cab soon as John invites me inside for a few   
minutes.  
  
We both sit down across from each other in his living room,   
and talk for awhile. I rest my head on the back of his sofa   
and listen to him talk. Before I realize it, I've fallen asleep   
on his couch.  
  
***  
  
I wake up in his guest bedroom, which is becoming more   
and more familiar. I really need to judge better how tired I   
am.  
  
Something feels wrong. I get up and silently tiptoe down   
the hall to his bedroom. The door is open and the room is   
empty. The house is silent and gray, dimly lit by the filtered   
light of the rising sun.  
  
I carefully go down the stairs, wondering how I got *up*   
them in the first place last night. John must have woken   
me up, but I don't remember.  
  
I see him across from where I am, sitting on the   
couch, leaning on the coffee table, resting his head in his   
hands.  
  
I approach him quietly, not wanting to surprise him, but not   
wanting to disturb him either. He doesn't make any move   
to acknowledge my presence. Something is wrong. I can   
tell--I can feel his worry; it's mine, too.  
  
"John." I hope for a response. No such luck.  
  
My gaze falls to the coffee table, as I realize he's actually   
staring *at* something. It's a piece of paper.  
  
'Don't worry. Don't look for me.'  
  
The words are written in Dana's scrawly handwriting and   
she signed it in the corner, along with a small apology--for   
leaving.  
  
"Where'd she go?" My question is mostly rhetorical. I'm   
surprised when John gives an answer.  
  
"Mulder."  
  
Of course. How could I not see that? Why didn't I see it   
coming? I'm too preoccupied. Since when did life get so   
complicated?  
  
Since I met John.  
  
He still hasn't moved. I sit down next to him and gently   
rest my hand on his shoulder. He tenses. After a moment   
he sits up with a heavy sigh, sinks back into the couch   
cushions, and stares up at the ceiling.  
  
***  
  
Of course the only two requests Dana made of us are the   
only two we would never be able to keep.  
  
John wants to look for her and I can't help but be pulled   
along with him, even though I can almost convince myself   
she'd be happier if she never saw us again.  
  
And we both worry.  
  
We pay a visit to Mrs. Scully and only end up upsetting   
her due to the fact that her daughter had once more left her   
out of the loop. She promises to call if she finds anything.   
Then she finds that there is a message on her machine that   
wasn't there the night before. By this time she is on the   
verge of tears and we politely excuse ourselves before   
things get any more uncomfortable.  
  
We head back to John's truck.  
  
I am all at once overwhelmed by the magnitude of   
everything. I get stuck in moments like these sometimes.   
I can't help myself, and sometimes I wish I never had this   
gift--if that's what it is.  
  
John was right with what he alluded to last time. It's all too   
much. Sure, it's mind-blowing and no one else gets to see   
these things...but they don't have to feel these things   
either.  
  
Every person I meet leaves their fingerprints on my mind. I   
feel them--or I don't. Luke left a big enough void and I   
never even met him. But in the space of time since I joined   
the X-files, besides getting to the point of feeling this   
overwhelming darkness all around me...  
  
I've felt Mulder's pain of separation from Scully, and his fear   
for his life. Scully's fear for his life and William's, and her   
pain--missing Mulder, giving up her son for adoption, and   
now leaving her fragmented life behind. And I've felt John's   
pain--his lost son is always at the back of his mind--and   
his worry for Scully and her son and Mulder, too. And his   
hurt sense of betrayal as the FBIL continues to feed us lies.   
Not to mention Brad causes me to feel the same way. And   
then the Lone Gunmen left a nice, big, conspiracy-sized hole   
when they passed on from this life. And John would never   
bring it up, but I think he misses them, too.  
  
That brings me back to where I am. Where am I? John's   
driving us somewhere, but I don't recognize where we are.  
  
I look over at John. He's on his cell phone, talking to   
someone...Skinner, I think. He hangs up and glances at   
me.  
  
"Where are we going?" I ask.  
  
We are going to look for Scully.  
  
"An abandoned warehouse out West. Supposed to be   
where they had some alien cloning thing going on."  
  
He is considerably less than articulate, trying to seem a   
little less agitated than he is, and completely not   
succeeding. He forgets--I can read him like a book.  
  
"And what reliable source clued you in to this?"  
  
I'm trying to make our overly-depressing, serious quest   
across country into conversation, but I am failing miserably,   
too.  
  
"Skinner," he answers. So I was right. He pauses.   
"There's a chance Mulder and Scully might go there to try   
and gather evidence, or information about the   
supersoldiers."  
  
I frown. "I thought they were trying to lay low--?" I trail   
off, waiting for him to respond.  
  
"Apparently not in this case." There's something he's not   
saying...I let it alone for now. Something else comes to   
mind-  
  
"Hey--wait. We're just going to drive straight to wherever   
this is on the other side of the country...right now?"  
  
"Yeah. We don't have time to do anything else. We gotta   
be there tomorrow night, or we'll be too late."  
  
"So we're driving-"  
  
"All night," he states and looks over at me.  
  
"I'll take the night shift," I say lightly, settling back in my   
chair to rest until nightfall.  
  
He looks at me again. He's still uncomfortable with me   
driving, but he doesn't say anything.  
  
"Don't worry," I say as I stare out the window, trying to   
make myself fall asleep.  
  
***  
  
When we arrive at our destination--a patch of trees a few   
hundred meters from the building--the sun has already set,   
and we are both tired of driving and cramped from sitting   
for so long. There were virtually no stops along the way,   
and we didn't have time to stop often. And I'm pleased to   
note that John seems to have become more comfortable   
with me behind the wheel.  
  
The sense of foreboding that overwhelms me as I step out   
of the truck, though, has nothing to do with my gift--John   
and I both hold our weapons ready in case they are needed.  
  
I try to open my mind to find anyone who might be here.   
We see a few figures silhouetted against the white building.   
I wonder absent-mindedly if they are supersoldiers, or if   
not, who else they might be.  
  
Then I feel them.  
  
"They are here," I whisper.  
  
John looks at me, surprised.  
  
"Where?"  
  
"I don't know exactly. I feel them, though. I know they're   
here."  
  
"Monica-" he starts in that tone of his. I cut him off.  
  
"John. Just trust me."  
  
He stays silent and I let my mind guide my eyes for a few   
minutes. Then I point them out to John. They are across   
from us, making their way to a door of the warehouse. It   
takes a minute before he sees them. They're barely visible   
all the way on the other side of the large, white building.   
Trees obscure the land surrounding the entire thing.  
  
Without thinking, John makes as though to go to them and I   
grab his arm and pull him back, pointing to the dark men   
standing on our side of the building.  
  
If they see someone, it will be us. And they are decidedly   
not on our side. Something's going to go wrong.   
Something...  
  
***  
  
We've been waiting outside, sitting in the woods, peering at   
this building for a good twenty minutes. Scully and Mulder   
went inside fifteen minutes ago and the strange men five   
minutes after that. We both want to follow, but neither of   
us wants to get Mulder or Scully caught because we mess   
up whatever they're doing.  
  
We're both so uncertain as to what we're doing here--and   
just what we're doing...  
  
I just sit and wait to get some idea as to what's going on.   
John waits restlessly by my side.  
  
***  
  
Not five minutes later, it comes. It--no--I can feel   
their panic now. For as long as we've been here I've felt   
fear, apprehension, but this is panic, terror. They're   
running--the building is going to go-  
  
I stand up suddenly and John follows suit, looking at me   
questioningly. Before I can say anything, the building goes   
up in flames--it *is* a flame--a big burning ball of fire   
expanding outward in a destructive display of light.  
  
I still feel panic, but I don't know whose--*I* am   
panicking, John is panicking--he's shouting but I can barely   
hear him over the noise of the explosion, and the noise in   
my mind.  
  
"...Are they alive? Were they in there? Monica? Monica,   
look at me..."  
  
I can't-- My mind is swimming in this molten puddle of fear,   
helplessness...  
  
"I don't know. I don't know anything..."  
  
"Yes, you do...Monica, focus. Look at me-"  
  
I just stare at the scorched walls, no longer white--no   
longer really there, even- I can't focus--I'm swept away in   
a storm of emotions that has just exploded in my head.  
  
Suddenly my knees give out, my legs refuse to support me,   
and I crumple to the ground, and John sinks to my side, his   
eyes full of worry. I barely notice. I squeeze my eyes shut   
and try to shut out all the noise, all the thoughts, feelings...  
  
A panicked voice echoes in the back of my head. "...Are   
they alive? Monica, are you okay? Can you hear me? Can   
you hear them?..."  
  
I can--no, I can't--I--  
  
I don't' know. I don't know anything anymore.  
  
  
  
~fin 


End file.
